


Stuck with U

by wthrvns



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Break Up/Make Up, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Non-Linear Narrative, but they dont really break up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26432512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wthrvns/pseuds/wthrvns
Summary: Kent has just been eliminated from the playoffs, has broken up with his boyfriend, and is across the country from his cat. He reminds himself of this when he orders a self-pity meal of kung pao chicken and fried rice and settles on the couch for a Pawn Stars marathon.orKent and Alexei's first fight.
Relationships: Alexei "Tater" Mashkov/Kent "Parse" Parson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 126





	Stuck with U

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Slight warnings for mentions of Jack's OD, but it doesn't get in depth.

Surprisingly, their first fight isn’t about Jack.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. Like most of Kent’s personal issues, the fight can be traced all the way back to what happened with Jack in the Q. But Jack is one of Alexei’s best friends, and he’s always perplexingly understanding of whatever dark traits Jack tends to bring out in Kent.

“I understand, kotenok,” Alexei had said when Kent asked him about it. He was still drowsy from the wine at dinner. Curled up against Alexei under the warm sheets, he had let himself be vulnerable enough to ask. “I know it’s complicated. You and Jack knowing each other long time. Friendships are not always making sense.”

There’s no trace of that acceptance now from Alexei, glowering at him from across the living room.

“Jesus Christ, Alexei. How does Jack feel about you kissing his boyfriend’s ass this hard?” 

“Bitty is good friend, Kent. Why you always needing to start fight? Usually I’m ignore, but this time you making him cry!”

Kent rolls his eyes. “He cries about everything.” The ‘ _so what’_ is implied in his voice. “I’m surprised he doesn’t flood the ice everytime someone chirps him.”

Alexei groans. “Why you have to be like this?”

Kent stiffens. “Like what, Alexei? Do you wish I was softer? _Sweeter?_ ” He asks in a mocking tone. “You knew what you were getting into when we started this. I never pretended to be anything else.”

“I’m not know how to deal with you like this, Kent.”

A lump grows in his throat. “So, what? You want to break up?”

Alexei’s eyes widen. “What? No, I’m not saying that—”

“No, it’s fine,” Kent cuts him off, making his way down the hall. “Message received, loud and clear.”

He slams the bedroom door and drags his luggage out from under the bed. When he emerges an hour later with a fully packed suitcase, Alexei is nowhere to be found.

Kent leaves his keys by the door when he leaves.

* * *

“I’m worried about Jack,” Kent says over the kitchen island. Eric is flipping pancakes at the stovetop. Kent, still jet lagged from his flight into Providence, has opted not to join Jack and Alexei on their morning run. The stiff atmosphere is enough to make Kent regret not just going with them.

“How so?” Eric’s voice is level, but his shoulders stiffen, giving him away.

“Bittle—” Kent pauses to choose his words carefully. “They had a rough season. They missed the wildcard spot by a landslide.”

Eric spins around and pins Kent with a glower. “What are you trying to say, Parse?”

“Nothing, I’m just saying it might be a good idea to keep an eye on him and make sure he’s coping okay.”

“To be frank, Kent, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“He’s my friend, Bittle. And I know firsthand that getting your ass kicked fucking sucks. It’s a lot of pressure.”

There’s a clatter as Eric drops what he’s doing. “And what of it? Are you trying to say you think Jack will—that you think he’s going to do something? He’s not like that anymore.”

Kent raises a brow. “Like what? The Jack I know and the Jack you know are the same person. Alexei told me he came back to see their hotel room _trashed_. He used to do that in juniors too. I just wanna make sure he doesn’t, y’know, spiral.”

“Get out.” Eric grits his teeth.

“What?” Kent asks in disbelief.

“I said to get out. How _dare_ you come into _our_ home and talk about Jack like, like he’s some kind of _addict_.”

Kent can’t help the derisive snort. “News flash, he _is_. He’s a recovering addict. Or are you just going to ignore the part where he spent two years in rehab?”

“Recovered,” Eric corrects him tightly. “He’s better now.”

“There’s always a chance of relapse.”

“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you ever just say shit up front or do you only make backhanded comments all the time?”

“I think you’re a bad influence on him. I’ve heard the stories about your...escapades.”

Kent scoffs. “I was twenty-one, and I won the Stanley Cup. You’re telling me you wouldn’t have partied just as hard? Seriously, Bittle, it’s not so different from you and your frat bros throwing kegsters. The only difference is that the Aces can afford better booze.” Kent pulls out his phone, checking the time. Where the fuck did Jack and Alexei jog to? Fucking Connecticut?

“We don’t need you poking around in our business. If anything, you just make his problems worse!”

Kent freezes and looks up from his phone. He meets Eric’s gaze with narrowed eyes. “Fuck you, Bittle,” he says in a low voice. “You weren’t even there. I was a kid, and I did my best to help him. While you were off playing peewee football or whatever the fuck, I was the one who found him. I’m the one who sat with him while he was dying on the bathroom floor. Maybe if you got your head out of your ass, you’d realize I’m just trying to make sure that doesn’t happen to you.”

Ignoring the tears that well up in Eric’s eyes, he stands up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Jack and Alexei come through the front door while Kent is pulling on his shoes.

“Kotenok, what’s wrong? You leaving?”

“Car keys,” he holds out his hand.

Alexei’s brows pinch in worry. He grabs Kent’s hand instead, and shares a look with Jack. “Is okay, I’m drive us home.”

Alexei leads him out the door, but not before they hear the murmur of Jack’s voice and Eric’s crying from the kitchen.

Kent grasps Alexei’s hand tighter.

* * *

When Kent is a kid, his mom brings him along to visit his Uncle Jim. 

Uncle Jim has always been the fun uncle. He’s his mom’s youngest brother and always brings along a small gift when he sees Kent. Kent hasn’t seen his uncle in forever, and his mom says it’s because he’s busy working at his new job. It isn’t until Kent is older that he’ll realize Uncle Jim wasn’t working more because he got a promotion, but because he’d been laid off and was trying to make ends meet.

His mom uses her emergency key to open the door, and the first thing Kent notices is the smell, sour and stale. The second thing he notices is the bottles, dozens of them, dark tall glass littering every surface in the living room. 

Uncle Jim comes to greet them, caught off guard by the surprise visitors. “What is this, Kathy? Some kind of surprise inspection?” He yells from the other room, while Kent sits on the couch and waits.

“You promised, Jim! You lied to our faces and said you were sober!”

His mom emerges from the other room alone, and heads to the kitchen. Kent can hear her puttering around, the glugging of alcohol going down the drain and the clink of empty bottles on the tiled counter. When she finishes, she grabs Kent’s hand and leads him out the door.

His uncle hadn’t even glanced at him.

* * *

Gravel crunches under Jack’s feet as he jogs through the park. He’s a few minutes early, but Tater is already waiting on a bench at the start of the trail. He’s hunched over, and as Jack gets closer, he sees the dark circles under his eyes.

“Hi, Tater. You alright?”

Tater doesn’t look up when Jack sits beside him. “Kent leave last night.”

“Oh. He went back to Vegas?” Jack thinks back to yesterday. It was hard to make out what happened through all the crying, and once Bitty had calmed down, he clammed up and refused to tell Jack what happened. Jack ended up having to call Kent and wrangle the story out of him.

“Not leaving Providence,” Tater mutters. “Leaving _me._ We argue last night so I go take walk, clear head. I’m come back and he’s gone.” His hands are balled up into white-knuckled fists. “I call so many times, but he not pick up.”

“What did you fight about?” Jack asks slowly.

“I’m ask him why he make Bitty cry, and he just get so mad.”

Jack cringes, imagining exactly how that must have gone down. 

“Tater, I really appreciate how good of a friend you’ve been to us. But I think you should cut Kenny some slack here.”

Tater scoffs. “You not sick of them arguing?”

“Of course I don’t like it, but Kenny’s my friend. We’ve been through a lot together, even if we did things to hurt each other. He’s the only one who really understands what it was like those days.” An image flashes in Jack’s mind — a young Kent alone in the desert calling to no avail, the memories of missed call after missed call. “I think it would be lonely, not having someone to talk to who just _knows_.”

Tater hums in understanding.

“Did he tell you what happened with Bits?”

Tater shrugs. “Not really. He just say Bitty not like him.”

Jack purses his lips. “Has he ever told you about what happened before the draft?”

Tater tilts his head and waves his hand in a so-so gesture. “He is telling me some. Some I know from news.” He shoots Jack an apologetic look. “Say you guys good friends, uh, very close.” A pink tints his cheeks, which means Kent has at least told Tater about _that_ part. “He also tell me you stop talking to him, but I know he is not mad anymore.”

Jack contemplates whether he should tell Tater. He doesn’t want to overstep if Kent has his reasons, but Kent’s reasons for withholding information are usually self destructive. He’s always been tightliped, hesitant to talk about the hard things.

“Did he tell you he was the one who found me?”

Tater glances up curiously.

Jack clears his throat. “The night before the draft, I mean. When I took the pills.”

Tater’s eyes widen in shock. “I’m not know that,” he says quietly.

“My parents were at dinner with some friends. Kenny and I were supposed to meet with some old teammates, and he found me in the bathroom. He called my parents and the ambulance. It — he was never really the same after that.”

Tater sniffs, and Jack places a hand on his shoulder. He offers Tater a small smile.

“I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m telling you because what happened didn’t just happen to me — it happened to Kent too. I love Eric, but my past scares him. I think it’s easier for him to blame Kent than to accept that it was a result of my own choices. I guess hearing that I trashed our hotel room freaked Kent out. I had a bad temper back then too.” Jack meets his eyes with a level gaze. “I was an addict, Tater. There’s always going to be a risk of a relapse. Kent’s concerns were perfectly valid.”

“You say Kent changed, after. What was he like before?”

Jack is caught off guard by the question. “He was still the same Kent, I guess. But he used to be less, euh, harsh around the edges. More of an open book, and trusting. A lot like how he is with you, actually, now that I think about it.”

He smiles at the soft look on Tater’s face. “C’mon.” He claps a hand on his back. “Let’s go. We have more important things than conditioning to worry about. I’ll harass Kenny for his hotel room number so you can send him flowers.”

* * *

Eric fidgets with the dish in his hands. The wafting scent of warm apple and cinnamon does nothing to calm his nerves. Taking a deep breath, he raises a fist and knocks twice on the door.

Nothing happens.

Eric glances down the hallway, like maybe Kent will pop out and surprise him. Hesitantly, he knocks again.

He hears ruffling inside the room, and a voice grumbles, “Go away, Zimms.”

Eric huffs. If Kent won’t open the door for Jack, he’s certainly not going to open it if he knows it’s him instead. He knocks again.

He hears a muffled curse, and suddenly the door flies open.

“Oh. It’s you.”

He plasters what he hopes is an open smile on his face. “Hi, Kent.”

Kent glances at the phone clutched in his hand and swipes at it with his thumb. He holds it between them while it rings on speaker.

“Hello.” Jack’s voice answers.

“What the fuck, Zimms. I told you not to tell anyone my room number.”

“Euh, well, technically you said not to give it to Tater.”

Kent scrunches his nose in distaste. “Fuck off, Jack.”

“But you’re the one who called—”

Jack’s voice is cut off when Kent hangs up.

“What do you want, Bittle?” Kent doesn’t look angry, just uninterested.

“Can I come in? I brought apple fritters.”

Kent raises a brow, but steps back and waves him into the room. Eric sets the dish on the coffee table. The television is on mute, but the big screen shows a slow-motion replay of Kent burying a puck in the net.

Eric can’t help a small sound of surprise. “You’re watching your own highlights?” He asks, a little incredulously.

“I’m watching the sports network. I guess they had nothing better to air,” Kent drawls.

“Right...Look, I’m sorry,” Eric blurts out before he loses the courage. “I talked to Jack about what you said and about his — his addiction.” He stumbles over the words a little. “It wasn’t right for me to place the blame on you for what happened to him. I get that now,” he adds in a quiet voice.

There’s a long pause, in which Eric is sure Kent will throw him out, before Kent says, “Thanks.”

“Thanks?” Eric parrots dumbly.

Kent shrugs. “Yeah. I know you didn’t get the best first impression of me. Jack and I clearly, uh, had some things to work through,” he laughs humorlessly.

Eric cracks a small smile in response. “Well, I’m glad you two were able to do just that.” He’s surprised to find that he means it. 

There’s an awkward lull in conversation. “Uh, can I get you anything? We have bottled water and tiny vodka,” Kent offers dryly.

“Oh, no thank you! I don’t mean to be an imposition.” He clears his throat, clapping his hands together. “Well, I better head out. The fritters are still warm. Tater told me you don’t really like pie, so…” He trails off, realizing too late what he’s said when Kent’s face drops. 

Kent nods, walking him to the door. “I’ll see you around.”

“Look, Kent. About Tater—”

“Don’t push it, Bittle,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it. 

“Right. Bye, then!” Eric flees, fanning himself. “Good lord,” he mutters to himself in the safety of Jack’s SUV. “Way to put your foot in your mouth, Eric.” He turns the ignition. 

“Also, who books a _penthouse_ suite last minute?”

* * *

Being with Kent is like clinching a wildcard spot in the playoffs. You push, and you push, but you don’t dare let yourself hope too hard. Kissing him is like hoisting the cup, the brush of cold metal on your lips and the taste of your wildest dreams come true.

Fighting with him is like a 3rd overtime shift, neither side giving in. It’s the way Alexei’s body burns, pleading for an end, regardless of which side scores. Losing Kent is like a game seven defeat, grueling and bitter. The pillow beside him still smells like Kent’s shampoo, and Alexei swallows the feeling that fate has strung him along.

His phone buzzes with a text.

 **Jack:** Top floor, room #7.

 **Jack:** His flight home is in two days.

Alexei doesn’t reply.

* * *

The first night they spend together, Kent tugs at the buttons of Alexei’s shirt and tells him in horribly accented Russian, _“Hurry the fuck up.”_

The choppy pronunciation makes him pause, and Alexei can’t help but snort. “You know Russian?”

Kent huffs, clearly growing impatient. He glances up, digging through his memory. “Just the important stuff. ‘ _Hello’. ‘Yes’. ‘No’. ‘Pass the puck, jackass’_. That’s about it,” he nods, satisfied.

None of it sounds remotely correct. “Is okay, I’m teach you better Russian.”

“Yeah?” He laughs and loops his arms around Alexei’s neck, tugging him closer. “Like what?”

Alexei hums, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. _“Funny,”_ he murmurs. _“Clever. Sexy._ _Gorgeous.”_ His lips trail up Kent’s neck.

“And what does that mean?” Kent wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. It’s unsubtle and a little tacky, but Alexei is charmed nonetheless. City lights pour in from the floor to ceiling windows, casting Kent in a hazy blue glow. The city below them is a quiet thrum, much like the prickling under Alexei’s skin, and his breath catches in his throat. 

Alexei could teach Kent every word he knows and it wouldn’t make a difference, he thinks, because nothing could accurately describe how he feels in that moment. It’s a million different feelings at once, tugging him in different directions, and the promise of something new. The intensity of it leaves him winded. 

He’s always fallen too hard and too fast. So instead of saying any of those things, he pulls Kent in for a kiss. Those thoughts can wait, he decides. They have all the time in the world.

* * *

Kent has just been eliminated from the playoffs, has broken up with his boyfriend, and is across the country from his cat. He reminds himself of this when he orders a self-pity meal of kung pao chicken and fried rice and settles on the couch for a Pawn Stars marathon.

“You’re telling me a shrimp fried this rice?” He mutters to himself, chuckling. It’s a little pathetic, but he’s watching a 75 inch flat screen in a hotel room that costs a thousand bucks per night, so he doesn’t dwell on it.

The knock on the door shocks him, and he fumbles the piece of chicken precariously balanced between his chopsticks. “Fuck,” he grouses, wiping the sauce off his shirt. He stomps to the door, swinging it open.

“I swear to god, Zimms, this better be important.”

Except it’s not Jack. It’s Alexei, with his hands in his stuffed in his pockets sheepishly.

“Hi. Can I come in?”

Kent sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But this is the last time I tell Jack anything important.”

“Is not his fault. I’m the one who ask him for room number.” Alexei is uncharacteristically subdued, but even with his shoulders hunched, he fills up the room with his presence. Kent watches as he looks around, a frown forming on his face. “Kent, how much you spending on this room?”

Kent shrugs. “It’s not like I can’t afford it. What, is the salary cap hitting you?” He asks just to be a dick.

Alexei just rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, Conn Smythe winner, make big money. But have perfectly good bed at home, Kent.”

“Yeah, well, home is currently a seven hour flight away,” Kent says to be difficult.

Alexei’s eyes soften. “Not meaning Vegas. Am meaning here in Providence. I’m sorry, please come home.”

“Sorry? What for?” Kent asks because he never could resist stoking the fire. It’s the same part of him that pokes at bruises and plays through aches and pains. He can’t help but push Alexei just to see how far he can, how much it will take until Alexei leaves for good.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave. I thought maybe you just want time alone, so I go on walk to calm down. I’m not thinking you would leave.”

“And what’s to say this won’t just happen again?” Kent’s voice shakes, and he avoids Alexei’s gaze. “I hate fighting with you. I’d rather just end things here if it’s always going to be like this.”

“No relationship is perfect. Just have to try best, need to _talk_. Why you not tell me Bitty say those things to you?”

“He’s your friend,” he grits. His nails dig into his fists from how hard he clenches them. Kent would rather run circles around his feelings than confront them out loud.

Alexei cups his face. “Kent, look at me. You’re _boyfriend_ , you think I’m not take your side? You think I’m not care?” 

Kent finally looks up, vision blurry from the swell of tears. He blinks, and Alexei thumbs away the stray drops. He sighs, tucking Kent’s face into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Kent says in a small voice.

“Is okay, kotenok. I’m not mad. Don’t cry.”

Kent thinks he’d be content to stay that way forever, with Alexei’s arms wound around him, murmuring in soft Russian.

“Я тебя люблю.” Alexei presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Kent tangles his hands in the fabric of his sweater, the one he steals when Alexei’s apartment is too cold.

“I love you too.”

* * *

Kent runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at how sweaty it feels. Usually, he’s the first one in the showers, but he stayed behind to take pictures with some of the other players’ kids. 

“Good game.” Mashkov slides up next to him.

“Thanks. You too, man.”

“Not good enough,” he jokes, much more cheerful than he would be at a real game. Kent wasn’t shocked to find out Mashkov was one of the other All-Star Game captains — he’s been on fire all season.

“Good enough for me to hear talks about you winning the Norris.” Kent leans in conspiratorially. “I think Scraps is a little salty about that.”

Mashkov laughs, blushing a little. He looks at Kent like he wants to say something. “We go to bar? I buy you drink, loser pays.”

Kent’s eyes widen, pleasantly surprised. “Yeah, sure. I’m in the mood for some poutine.”

Mashkov tilts his head, confused. “Putin?”

Kent cracks up, keeling over in laughter. “Oh man, that’s great.” He claps a hand on Mashkov’s shoulder. “Very incorrect, but great. You know, you’re not so bad, Mashkov.”

Mashkov grins back cheekily. “Tell me again when Falconers beat Aces next week.”

Kent smirks. “In your dreams, dude.”

He skates away smiling, something warm and pleasant settling in his chest.


End file.
